Groceries and Linens
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: A late night grocery trip to quell some cravings ends up deadly. Jules POV. Set after 5x08 but AU before the finale. Two-shot.
1. Groceries

_A/N:This is a 'oneshot' I've had on my hard drive since October, but never had the time to finish. It takes place definitely before the finale, but I guess it incorporates elements of 5x08.  
I made this a 'two-shot' because it was growing too big, there was space for a cliff hanger, and this will give me the time I need to finish off the second section, which is more than half written.  
For queries about my other stories, please see my profile for details._

**Disclaimer: Don't own Flashpoint. **

Groceries and Linens

It was supposed to be simple.

Like her sojourn to The Hat. A weeklong blink spent with her father and brood of sweat stained dirt trailing brothers, except Allen who opted out of the farmer life to run a bed and breakfast in town. The main topic of course was the unexpected guest in her own bed and breakfast. The result of a slip up in protection, in too little objection.

Brothers bristled around her, an overprotective ring fourteen weeks too late. Was she okay? how did she feel? Who was the guy? Sam? Well, where the hell was he? Was he going to marry her? Did she want them to make him marry her? When they found out she flew in from Toronto, they got the vapors. Should she be flying? Did she want a ride back? Should she be drinking that? Washing the dishes? Standing? Go sit Jules, we got this.

Eyes trailed from under scowly brows. Mountain man whiskers worn prairie style hardened her father's gray eyes. Grandchildren river pebble common. Different shapes, colors and sizes. Left the peeling front door of her farmhouse youth and he patted her shoulder, then poked the gentle slope at her stomach. A new protrusion only one week old. A solid manifestation of their child Sam hadn't witnessed yet.

"Take care of them." Sam stroked her stomach at the airport. All of her carry-ons slung around his shoulder except for the one his fingers strummed. Refused to unlatch from her body.

"Take care of it," her father suggested in withered farmer years, bald tires gnawing gravel. Rounded fingertip jabbed into her navel.

Arrived back in Toronto a few hours ago to an empty house. The Team on shift. A slow April night spent patrolling or throwing weights in a skyline lit room. The house smelled of flowers, furniture polish, floor cleaner and empty garbage bins. He cleaned predicting her arrival and probable jetlag. He stocked the fridge predicting her need to eat for two.

Crystal ball crashed on cravings. Wanted cereal. Needed cereal. Loops of crispy fruit flavors soggy in a bowl of chocolate milk sounded like a description of culinary heaven. Could call Sam, tell him her qualm and beg him to pick up the only two things he didn't buy on his first grocery trip.

Or she could go herself.

Which was how she ended up walking down a grocery store aisle at ten o'clock at night. Cart lazily swaying with the groove of her ebbing hips. How much cereal to get? How much chocolate milk? She needed antacid tablets because everything she ate before noon gave her biting heartburn, just swells of acid corroding her stomach, chest and throat.

A chime rang from inside her purse plumped in the cart seat. In a year, whoever she grew would sit in the cart seats. She grinned, had to grin, Sam trying to control whoever sat there and failing madly. Grazed her shirt which seemed more form fitted than a mere week ago, the tip of her stomach practically strangled it. She was probably bloated. Was it even possible to be bloated and pregnant at the same time? She needed to look it up in the mountain of unread baby books at home.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Sam sighed relief. "You never called me when you landed."

"Oh God." He disconnected from her in a Medicine Hat airport with the promise of her calling the minute the plane landed on Toronto tarmac. "I'm so sorry. I completely forgot. I guess I just got pregnancy brain."

"Yeah?" A grin stretched his voice, and his phone jostled between proud hands. They still hadn't told the Team. Number one on the baby to-do list since she would need a new uniform at this rate. "How are you feeling?"

"Big." Traced her stomach again, the dramatic fall of skin. Just warming it up for him. A middle-aged man darted across the aisle, cut her off, but the verbal reunion created an untouchable calm.

"Bigger than three days ago?" When they last talked. Treated her Hat homecoming like a final vacation before the baby. His final taste of bachelorhood. Limited communications.

"Huge. I'm destroying this shirt." Did she want the name brand circle crunches of fruit, or the no name brand? They started budgeting for the baby. An immediate baby fund for a nursery and décor, a crib, car seat, bassinet, clothes, diapers. Then a college fund. Dr. Braddock had a nice ring to it.

Groaned into the phone. Clattered against his skin, hissed with his harsh exhalation. "I can't wait to see you."

"You've got less than an hour, right?" The feeling mutual. Ducked her flushed cheek as a tall elderly man reached for oatmeal nearby. Tipped his cap and returned her grin.

"Two, we have to cover for—"

"Management to cashier two. Management to cashier two."

"Where are you?"

"The grocery store." Fingered the corner of a red box off the shelf. Single or family-sized. Were they a family yet? Was she a mobile family?

"I bought groceries."

"Not cereal."

"I bought cer—"

"Not the kind I wanted." A blackness darted by the end of the aisle. The quickness, the blur, a mislead blink. An irregular formation of colors in a jetlagged, pregnant mind.

His throaty chuckle dragged her back into the dampened phone conversation. Red box thumped into the cart stomach. "God I missed you."

"Come on, you must've enjoyed your bachelor life. That house all—" Feedback screeched above ceiling perched speakers, then mellowed to the sounds of a scuffle at the front of the store.

"Empty. It was empty without you two."

"Sam." Back straightened, tightened. Feet softened over linoleum surface in smooth, urgent steps. Flattened to the aisle edge, peered to no avail. "Something's—"

"I don't want to be a bachelor. I've been thinking about it and I think we should get m—"

Cold stalk of a barrel burrowed into the base of her skull. Leather gloved hand grasped the bottom of the phone; lips rippled a black cotton ski mask.

"Let go of the phone, Lady."

Two gunshots rang out from the store front. From the cashier area. From cashier two. Her elbow drilled into a lean stomach and the gun barrel tipped up. The man grunted into black cotton soaked with spittle.

"Sam?"

"Are you okay? What's going on?"

Jogged to the opposite aisle end. Glanced left for more masked men. Then right. "The store's being held up. There's—"

Never thought to double check behind.

Hot hand on her shoulder slammed her into the shelves. Oatmeal and cereal shuddered to the floor. Hand crashed to her face. More than a slap, not quite a closed fist. A hybrid. Herself a hybrid. A cop, a sexy sniper chick, a mother. A decision of a bare knuckle brawl with a man who had a foot of height and thirty pounds of muscle on her.

Lost all her years as a cop, lost her SRU officer instinct, because someone else relied on her. She couldn't be a cop and a mother, not right now. Not without padding and vests and sidearms and backup. Squeaked out a submission at a second raised fist. Shoulder hunched to her face, arms wrapped around her stomach. Phone clattered to linoleum, fingers liquefied.

"Jules? Jules? Sweetheart—" Sam refused to unlatch from her. But the man's boot heel mashed her phone into circuits and wires.

Her name a swan song.

* * *

It was supposed to be simple.

Red lights spun topsy-turvy through the grinning store windows. Red pooled at cashier two. A single bullet execution-style claimed the clerk and the assistant manager. Their bodies limp and heavy. Blood wrung fingertips whorled across register keys.

The phone rang for the twenty-third time.

Harsh steel dug into her skin. Unsupported, her back sagged, her muscles smoked, curved to the gaps between the shelves. Hand not hot in abuse but cool in self-assurance, rivered lines across her navel. Told whoever was in there to be patient—Sam would stroke her stomach, would marvel at the change, would talk to their child. Told whoever her body housed this was just a small clench in plans. Ride it out little one.

After he hit her, the sock-faced man shepherded her to the front of an aisle. He and his partner, the dominant of the pair, the one with the trigger finger, shared gruff words before the hot hands disappeared into the back warehouse.

To her left sat the oatmeal snatching old man. His long legs bent off the floor, bones aggravated by arthritis. He remained silent, face a weather worn boulder, but every fifteen minutes or so, he'd smile softly as her hand drifted.

A middle-aged, sweaty man hunched a few feet away from them. Detached from the group. His face smeared in a slimy glow as his tongue kept rewetting his lower lip. She pegged him as a business man, unmarried but probably with a younger girlfriend. Someone used to being in a power position, not being forced a subordinate. Yeah, join the club.

The phone rang for the thirtieth time.

Wondered if her team swayed beyond the scattered lights. If Sam rooted himself to the damp asphalt and stared into the store with a set jaw. Sometimes his jaw set so hard the muscles twitched.

The night before she left, he crawled into bed after a brief bar excursion with the guys. She excused herself, had to pack, actually had to pack but carried pure exhaustion on her shoulders from sitting in the back of the truck all day. Almost fell asleep in the shower. Blared music on the way home and cracked windows to let in invigorating April air. Fell asleep on the stairs while she took her shoes off.

The night should've been romantic and passionate. A week apart was a week apart. Stretches of land separated them as her skin stretched to incorporate pieces of them. Meant to enjoy the final night before their brief split. But all she could manage was an angled reciprocation as he dropped his body next to her. He kissed her shoulder, then her cheek before his hand curled around her navel. Cushioned her whole stomach, baby and all.

The phone rang for the forty-first time.

"You need to answer the phone."

Handgun clicked and aimed in response. The sweaty man stopped his fidgets. The older man shifted closer. Warned, an hour ago-maybe two, to be silent. Be still. Sniper breathing tummy rubs.

But if the phone remained unanswered, both parties unmet, then they remained in this stalemate. These men already killed twice. Nothing, including the cops outside, would stop them if a plan formulated around killing. "If you don't answer the phone, they'll find another way to communicate."

"Really?" Sock cotton rolled over a mouth. Voice muffled and hoarse. Bald tires and a gravel road. Take care of it. The gun never faltered as he approached her. Only grew more stabilized, directly in line with her forehead. A sudden sound, a muscle spasm and belly rubs wouldn't mean a thing. "And how would you know this?"

The insinuated stench stronger than gun smoke. The idea she might be a cop. The truth she is a cop. The reality of what would happen if she spoke honest words. Instead answered with half-truths. "My boyfriend's a cop."

Her family is cops.

Outside feedback hissed.

"This is Sergeant Gregory Parker with the strategic response unit—"

* * *

It was supposed to be simple.

The whole hostage situation could've been diffused with the simple use of a smoke grenade. Separated, the subjects become weakened. The agitated man on the phone who pumped his gun in the air would've tasted linoleum before smoke bled through the vents. But no smoke happened, because the bump under her shirt happened. It rested so perfectly against the palm of her hand she couldn't really give blame.

"No. You listen. I want all of your shit—" Muffled screams filtered through the black cotton and into the mouthpiece of the phone. Gun waved unnaturally, like a traffic light caught in a strong gust. "your cars and your vans— gone."

The old man nudged her shoulder with his. Her hands stilled on her stomach, but he greeted her with a grin. "Your boyfriend must be worried."

"Yeah," she nodded, stole his grin. No one knew her job, her experience, her role as cement shoes. But the old man was right about Sam. Must be in constant view of the building, in the truck with Spike's eyes in, inside the unsmokey air vents. "He's never going to let me grocery shop again."

"You have ten minutes."

"Some women would consider that a victory."

"Some women don't enjoy their freedom as much as me." She spoke with a palm full of baby belly, essentially the death of her freedom. Shackled lifelong career change. A different kind of freedom, a different kind of liberty. She'd still be a good cop; she was just on protection duty for the next six months.

"Ten minutes or someone dies."

"Is this your first?"

First what? Hostage situation? No been in hundreds, maybe even thousands. Her pregnancy was the surreal aspect of this day. Sat in the window seat of a plane as tuffs of clouds streamed by and positioned earphones around her stomach. Wanted to see if they would fit, bubble burst as they fell slack pumping a playlist Sam created to keep her company. They probably couldn't hear yet anyway.

"Yeah, this is our—"

Wetness splattered across her face. Beside her the old man fell slack, crumbled against the shelves. Eyes glossed open, vacant, rolled. Mouth hooked and gaped.

The subject's eyes more lifeless. Never dallied from the new corpse. He cocked his gun, smoke wisped from the barrel as he shot at the landline. "They're not going to move."


	2. Linens

_A/N: Fun fact: I changed the last line at the very last second because I didn't like the tone of it.  
Fun Fact: A ton of you just scrolled down to see what the last line was. Spoiler alert indeed.  
Thanks for reviewing, favoriting, following and of course, reading. Glad you enjoyed.  
Also I'm currently working on updating Elysian Fields and Illegitimate. However, I'm simultaneously writing my thesis project, so I will probably be updating sparingly. _

Groceries and Linens (2/2)

It should be simple.

Duct tape grumbles while disconnecting from the roll. Licks her wrists with a sticky firm tongue. Fuses her arms, pseudo handcuffs from a subject in a grocery store. Wraps and tightens until the tips of her fingers flush numb, bend slow.

Pancaking palms separate the rest of her body from her stomach, her bump, from her baby. Take care of them. No ten fingered shield. No constant strums and taps playing out songs from Sam's playlist.

The first subject. The only subject. The second subject quickly became the fourth victim once he returned from the back office with a duffle bag weeping bundled bills.

The sweaty man ticked, toddled and fidgeted himself a target. The subject shot him in the leg. Left him to bleed out or be saved at the front of the store. His wails blend with the central air system.

"You don't have to do—"

"Oh." Hand slap drowns her mouth. Tacky back seals her lips and his palm steamrolls so when the tape finally rips free, a layer of skin will too. Eyelids narrow from cut sock holes. "And you were doing so well too."

Take care of them, Jules.

When exactly does co-parenting begin?

* * *

It should be simple.

The warehouse echoes with forced steps, shuffles in bloodlets. Jean legs starched and dyed old man crimson. Herds her, winter glove on her neck and nine millimeter to her back. Her hands clasp together in a faux prayer for her stomach showcase. A complete display of unprotected fourteen week old fetus.

Fans dance in slow rows. Lazily undulate like golden Hat fields. Gigantic shadows rotate on the floor in flickering lights. Scaffolding painted navy, rusted brown fabricate aisles. Wheat rows in the afternoon wind. Take care of it.

Red double doors wait at the end of the egress. Soldier still, unharmed in the faltering florescents. Double doors to police packing a parking lot. Red and blue chasing but never catching. Never copulating. No purple. Grocery store red, parking lot blue, she can't end up purple. Hostages who move to a second location, they usually don't come back from purple.

Back bruises from a gun barrel. Pants grow stiff. Hard to wade through. Air recycles hot on her taped mou—

"SRU, drop your weapon."

Eight days wasted in two different time zones. Eight days for a cellular divide like a parental divide. A sorting system for organs, nerves, and bones. The swell in her stomach proof of the system, proof of growth. The eight day growth on his face a failure of bachelorhood. God she hates when he doesn't shave.

The rifle locks to his shoulder, and his eyebrows fall more than a scowl. They plummet with scorn, with fury blanketing his fear because she watches him blink four times in just as many seconds. Watches a tight hinged jaw twitch from grinding down his teeth all night long. Not how either of them intended to reunite.

Gun barrel jams into her neck. Cold, round, sharp. Not really a barrel at all and she envisions the training session where she plays the constant victim waiting to teach the rookie how to negotiate. Got taught that way, taught him that way. Come on Dad; time to shine.

"No. I don't think that's going to happen." Subject grumbles cotton strained words. Her body, shields most of his, except his head. Stupidly left his head popping out from her shoulder. Knows protocol. The talk down technique first. "We're going to walk out those doors."

"I can't let you do that." Voice uneven. Not pitchy, or fearful, just not fully calm. Maybe only the team would catch it. Maybe only she would catch it. Pulls back a bit. The scope of the gun left a little red smudge on his cheek. "Maybe we could talk—"

"I shot four people."

"That doesn't mean you have to do anything more you regret." Clear of the scope, but the gun hasn't shifted. Can still pull the trigger. Needs to pull the trigger. "If you leave her with me, you have my word that I won't stop you."

"And there aren't dozens of cops waiting for me outside?" Hot hand on the back of her neck. Heat through winter gloves. Chest steaming her crumpled hands. "I'll take my chances."

The subject forces a footstep and she breaks her internal code. Makes eye contact with him. Because she can't go purple without a fight. And she can't fight while she backpacks another life. His comprehension occurs immediately, their connection infallible.

"Wait. Wait."

"You think I won't—"

The gun to her neck must be drawing blood, but she doesn't make a sound. Not a movement. Clears her mind. Just like training. Taught Spike this way, and Lew, and Leah, and Raf. Just training little one.

"Take me instead." A noble gesture does wonders for heroes in action films.

But in reality, subjects are too intelligent to fall for noble gestures and rash declarations of love. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Taking a cop for a host—"

"I just want keep—"

Doesn't let him finish a career ending sentence. While his radical rescue attempt aggravates the already red-zoned subject, she uses the distraction. Slams her heel into his toes,plows her cupped hands into his stomach and bucks him backwards into angled scaffolding.

Adrenaline rush or pregnancy brain, she forgets counter attacks. Not a hybrid, a full punch. Devours her nose, regroups with the previously hit cheek. Stumbles, until she tips over. Shifted center of gravity—no, no too early for that. Just lightheaded, bloody headed.

On her back, warehouse floor gritty. Blood seeps from her nose, flows over her taped up mouth and getting hard to breathe. Hands scrape dusty ground in her flails, in her desperate need to loop her arms around her legs and rip off tape. But the tape strapped tight. Licked tight. Hard to breathe. Breathing in blood hard—

Chittering metal slug. Skitters by her and disappears. Fluorescent light flare, but peripherals dull. Blots her vision with grays and blacks. Manifest of iceflowing pain concrete in center face.

Nostrils brick up. Not the stuffy sinuses of springtime allergies. Blood oozes down her face, trickles down the back of her throat. Bitter salt of dancing pennies. Tape suctions her lips together, deletes the void of her mouth.

"Subject neutralized."

Pressure bites at bent bones. Instinct to roll her body over, hands bridge back. But can't lie on her stomach. The bump, the baby. Side, lie on her side. Rocks, but an exertion. Requires more air, snorts more blood bubbling air. Can't breathe, sustaining gasps wane, and gurgles a true swan song from a packaged throat.

"Jules." Not a question, a demand. Through darkened sun spotted vision, blurry and dizzying, knows he flips her forward. Thick warm streaks of blood flow down her face, over the tape, drip from her chin. Arm couches her back, straightens and supports it while her nose vomits.

Rips the tape without warning. Flings it from her face. Can't pull a bandage off himself. Drags it inch by inch. Different priorities, responsibilities. Take care of them. Her lips stay secure with a gummy residue. Vision floats, settles and she coughs.

Head full, and round, mimics her stomach. Complete vision of the warehouse floor. The sole of the subject's upturned shoe. The subject's gun a few feet from her right. Two lakes of blood pooling, shifting, growing on the dusty gray floor. Sam shot him.

Props her. Thighs bounce at her hip. Beard tangles in her hair. Speaks, rambles, but she only scavenges words. Auditory fragments. Her name as he cautions her still. Knife saws at the half roll of tape bruising her wrists.

"Where are you hurt?" Hands collapse around tacky wrists, massage warehouse dirt and his sweat into her skin. Steers back bent arms forward in slow ebbs. From swan dive to prayer group. "The baby? The baby? Your pants are covered—"

"Not mine."

* * *

It should be simple.

But they couldn't tell anyone—she didn't want to tell anyone. Waited until the three month mark, the noose finally loose and he only looked to her, waiting for permission to celebrate. And she couldn't. Because she expects not to be expecting. A high stress, high danger job. A late first pregnancy. They shouldn't expect anything, but he keeps a correspondence. Touching her stomach and dancing fingers over something she expects to disappear. Holding conversations from hockey games plays to politics with an unborn high expectation.

Two weeks past three months isn't safe enough. She needs out of the gallows. Needs a barricade of bubble wrap in the back of the truck.

Red spackle gauze dabs her nose. A displaced fracture, leave it alone to settle right. Don't get punched in the face again. Ball and chain her to desk duty. Paper work and rubber stamps and call waiting while she waits like he waited and she doesn't know what's more painful her present face or future occupation.

After all the abuse, the broken—displaced bones, the spilled blood. The thing she can't deal with is a baby. The change of life. The submissive in her dominance. Not hitting back when she needs to. Not protecting the unprotected. Expecting them to be naturally unexpected. Naturally expelled.

"Well." The doctor's brow furrows and thickens as he turns the screen towards her. In the half glow she finds an outline. A very baby looking outline nestled in a black pool. Sucking their thumb. Heart shimmers with the spurting echo beats. Not her own. "I think it slept through the whole thing."

And this baby is theirs. Hers and Sam's. Kept calm with sniper breaths. Your very first hostage situation. Write the entry in the baby book with the newspaper print out.

In waiting room chairs he doesn't fidget. He remains a strict still, the same composure of very little facial movement and speech he dropped her off with. A dire night starting to drain at his age. A night like this combustible at any age. Slouch straightens when his peripherals catch her and he stands, courteous to greet her. Courteous and jacket less. SIU seized Sam's, so he donated his.

"Are you okay?" His longest sentence of the night.

"I'm fine. Displaced fracture and some minor bruising." Awkward in his jacket. Swims in his jacket. Feels like she just got caught having sex in the parking lot at the prom again and the police are handing her over to her dad. Not that he ever cared.

"The baby?"

"Baby's fine. The doctor said they slept through the whole thing."

"They?" Halts his head scratch, cap dead in his hand. The evocation of a plural. The idea she eats lunch for three or more. Withheld information signed in triplicate.

"We don't want to know the gender." Spits from her mouth. Weak defense. Completely incomprehensible. But she and Sam agreed not to find out the gender and calling their baby 'it' sounds horrible. "'They' and 'them' are more personal."

"Hmm." He agrees or disagrees pointing her to the door and the cold spiked early morning air.

Guilty about stealing his jacket. About not telling him, or the team. Maybe putting everyone in a little extra danger. Take care of it. Wisps of air huff from his mouth.

"Are you upset?" Shuffles sneakers over an asphalt parking lot clouded with dozens of frozen puddles. Survive a hostage situation, end with a slip and fall. "About us not telling the team?"

Stops in the flood lights a few steps ahead. Waits as she precariously picks her footing. "I'm not upset, Jules." Voice adopts a softer cadence. Weak ice cracks with their footfalls. "The Team cares and protects each other. If you have someone else that you care about, that needs protecting we would help. I told you we'd have this kid's back."

Take care of them. We'll take care of them. A team effort to keep her safe until the due date despite lasped shopping trips and a subliminally suggestive father. They share a grin, the same appreciative grin. The one that put him in a bullet proof vest and shirt in a parking lot at two in the morning. The one that made her so afraid to upset him. Take care of it.

"So they slept through the whole thing, huh?"

"Yep, sucked their thumb during the ultrasound."

He chuckles, unlocking the doors to his car. "There's the future of the SRU."

* * *

Maybe it gets simpler

She relaxes—tries too. Newscast flashes of a grocer's floor interrupt vines of shower steam and sighs. Maroon blood crusted into linoleum grooves, dried in splatters on dull paint, constricted in her jeans. Evidence jeans, a plastic bagged delicacy for a craggy-faced cop. Bushy browed enough to judge and poke. Take care of it.

Soft pajama pants—bloodless. Checks the inner seams three times between the ensuite and bed. No bloodletting—still unexpecting the expected. The glass of water on the bedside table half empty after two Tylenol. Soft pillow and river fingers, apologies in down feathered whispers. Promises: safety in no hypertension, security through chained desk work, and Sam, a dad who will return after SIU's verbal harassment.

Dreams a plum haze. Clouds streaming and skimming through an oval plane window. The same oval an internal bassinet for baby Braddock. Thumb sucking and earphone plugging and stomach jabs and hybrid left hooks. A palm full of bullets and the blood laps her legs again. Dries hard, concrete, cocoons and maims. The bumps, the bud of a bump disappears through a cloud of smoke. Take care of it.

"Jules?"

Half glass of water glows red in the predawn. Digital clock numbers swim in the cup, an unreadable distortion. Hair pastes to her neck, the side of her cheek. Cotton pajama top sopping in sweat. Lighter than blood, doesn't dry thick.

A drawer groans in the darkness. Wood shaving wood. The sheets underneath her absorb the extra sweat, clump damp. Thinks for a moment her water broke. Nose stings, displaced, misplaced, pressures her sinuses and temples.

"What time is it?"

"A little after four." The drawer moans again, and his body shuffles back towards the bed. Moonlight peeking through blind breaks highlight his bare shoulders. Rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. Groans, sounds a little like the drawer, "You had a—"

"I know." Yanks the heavy cotton over her head, flinging it to the side of the room. Deal with it in the morning. Late in the morning. The afternoon.

"I've been trying to wake you for a few minutes. I thought you had a fever." Leans across the bed sacrificing one of his t-shirts. Airy, roomy, soon to be sweat soaked. "You want to talk about it?"

Wide neckline falls freely around her face, her displaced, misplaced stinging nose. Sloops at her shoulders. "No."

But reaches for him, curls against him under the covers. Hand around her hip; he kisses her forehead, beard irritating her skin. Spreads his fingers through her shower steeped, sweat wet hair. "How was SIU?"

"A nightmare." Irony intended. Lips putter against her forehead, callous like a sudden beard. Limper, less movement.

"Because of me?" Rubs the tip of her nose against his chin bristles. Childish in coquettishness. Fatigued into a sheltered submission. Safe arms, known body—bodies.

"Because of you, plural."

Lips scratch over hers, ignite, match head striking sandpaper. Caressing hands grow coarser, knead deeper. Eyelids heavy, his tongue heavy in her mouth, head heavy against the bare expanse of shoulder slipping out of the shirt.

"I missed you." Humid breath sends her nostalgic shivers. Their sexless night. Loving, judgeless, harmed less. An oval airplane window where she tried to fit an earphone bud to her belly button. Listen to your Dad's playlist and weep with me.

The heat steams, compresses and releases like his hot breaths. Neither up for sex tonight, tired, family fabric torn, euphoric in the relief of complacent touches. A kiss scratches the mound of her right breast, outgrown a swell, outgrown a cup. Lingers with itching bearded nuzzles. Maybe she's the one not up for sex.

But the intent wanes, suckles mute to pecks, kneading returns to caresses. Hands stroke over her stomach, gentler than a river current. Trace the small protrusion until memorized. Traces continue because they're home.

"You grew a lot in a week." Lips press to the lobe of her ear. The rawness in her face prevents her from turning her head, from kissing him with eight days of doubt in grocery store glass shards and farmhouse pebbles.

So her shoulders relax against his chest. Enjoy the completed circuit of his hands to her stomach to their baby. "Prairie cooking." His grin blossoms against her neck, fingers lulling. "Were they upset?"

"Who?"

"The Team."

Hands still over her stomach, consume their bump, burn through his cotton and heat her skin. "They were a little shocked. I was too focused on getting you out of there to really notice."

Doesn't want to hear about the valiant efforts of the team. The banged knees in air ducts and the eye shines from bright security tapes. The truck cabin timeout because he's half the reason the team couldn't use smoke. "I think Sarge was a little hurt we didn't tell him sooner."

"What about your brothers?"

"They're worried for me. They want to hurt you."

Beard itches her shoulder with his chuckle. He volunteered to meet her family, to travel to the farmhouse where the fields heard her secrets and her brothers each sowed their own kids, but four against one didn't seem fair. "And your dad?"

Jabs her stomach. Misplaced noses and bloodstained pants don't hurt as much as a single prod. Lowered whiskered brows and head shaken judgments. "He told me to take care of it."

"Well, that's—nice?"

"No." Curls her back against his chest again. Wraps his arms tighter, safety belts. Earphones for his calming playlist while she spouts the horrors of her vacation, her grocery trip, her survivor's guilt. The vacillation between all embracing motherhood towards a shirt stretching bump and ultimate dread for accepting the waiting role because of a protrusion. Desks and car seats and spit up and diapers and earrings ripped clean from her earlobes. And blood swallowing her pants just swallowing it stiff. "He didn't mean it like that."

Exhales hot air hard on her skin. Settles both hands on her stomach, headphones. Heart booms through his chest, the elevated tempo creeps into her. Wasn't going to tell him. Fingers slip between his, skin and cotton. Wasn't going to tell him but then the grocery store almost took care of it.

"It's not importa—"

"He's your Dad. You went to see him because on some level you thought—"

"Do not psychoanalyze me, Braddock." Shoves at him to create space between them. A well for damp sheets, and off topic subjects.

Hands grab the shirt and drags her back. Arms calm her squirms, fingers tap the beat of a playlist song to their baby, beard exfoliates the skin on her neck. "We'll take care of them."


End file.
